


Wardogs - Dogshow

by Snekdog



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cyborgs, Master/Pet, Military, Mind Control, Pack Dynamics, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-14 15:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8019898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snekdog/pseuds/Snekdog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Commissar_Rasher's Wardog universe, a war reporter is embedded with a pack of canine killing machines. </p>
<p>He'll have to earn their trust to get the answers he's looking for, but if he's not careful, he might just wind up as dog food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wardogs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7418635) by [Commissar_Rasher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Commissar_Rasher/pseuds/Commissar_Rasher). 



-Atlanta, Georgia-  
-1400 EST-  
-Adrian-

"Alright folks, we're talkin' BRAINWASHING." A sweaty, older, overweight Texan man stared intently into the camera. "I've been contacted by a young man, a PATRIOT, who was until recently a part of the government's Wardog program." 

"This individual has, at great risk to himself, agreed to give us exclusive interviews on the sordid and frankly disgusting, perverted brainwashing program that is the Wardog program." Spittle caught in the blue light of the TVs behind the broadcaster. "Your sons and daughters are all at risk, America! They're being turned into obedient drones for the global elite of the New World Order!"

The old man was working himself into a fervor. "But we're going to expose it here! We're going to show you the truth! We're going to BREAK THE CON-!"

"You can guess how this goes on, Mr. Carpenter." The screen paused, and Adrian looked up towards his boss. Catherine Ardmore was the Vice President of one of the biggest news networks in the US, if not the world, and looked every bit the part. Short, silver hair framed a thin, wrinkled face with stony blue eyes and a permanent fake smile that never reached her eyes. 

"He tries to sell some water filters?" Adrian quipped, eliciting a brief smirk from the woman opposite the desk. 

"Yes, eventually, but that's not why I'm showing you this. Are you familiar with the Wardog program?"

Adrian shifted in his seat. "Vaguely, sure. It's some DARPA power armor project, right?"

"Just some bizarre military unit riding around in dog-shaped tanks," Catherine waved her hand dismissively. "There are the kinds of people who eat up stories like that, though normally it's not our viewership. But thanks to this interview here going viral, there's now a huge public interest in everything Wardog." Catherine grinned, looking like a predatory bird about to strike. "We've managed to pull some strings, and we've gotten permission to embed one of our reporters with a Wardog unit in Iran." 

Adrian felt a mix of thrill and panic as he realized what he was being volunteered for. Dodging bullets in the Middle East for the next few months wasn't his idea of a fun vacation, but there was little he could do to get out of it. Putting on his best eager reporter face, he leaned forward. "When do I leave?"

\---

-Iran-  
-0530-  
-Sarge's Pack-

Six sets of synth-flesh ears perked up at the sound of voices outside of the barracks. One voice, a male, was unfamiliar, and caused no real interest. But the other, sweet, middle-aged, and female, was unmistakable to the freshly woken Wardog pack. 

Within seconds, the sparsely furnished, but somehow messy barracks room was a blur of activity. barked Sarge. With a two-tone, grey and black body covered in armored plating, a long muzzle, and perky, almost batlike ears, Sarge looked like a mall ninja had mistaken a German Shepherd for a piece of combat gear. Having previously spent two tours overseas in the Marine Corps, Sarge was the oldest member of the pack, and it's leader. 

The other five Wardogs bolted or crawled out of bed, responding with a mix of barks and grumbles.

The first up and in position was Toby. Toby had opted for a long, thin tail and floppy ears, and a desert multicam coat of paint over synthflesh, he looked almost like a dalmation. 

The next was Tank. Thicker bodied and broader muzzled than the rest of the pack, Tank had opted for a Rottweiler look. he grumbled, sitting in position next to Toby. 

Two more wardogs bounded into positions to the left of Tank. Max and Lady were the twin Golden Retriever dogs of the pack, and while they had come in at different times and held no familial ties in the human world, as packmates they had developed a brother-sister bond, as well as a friendly sibling rivalry.

The last in line, and the newest packmate, was Ivan. Tall, thin for a Wardog, and a uniform light grey, Ivan had modeled his unit off of a Borzoi, and had a marked fascination for fetching old and antique firearms and gear off of dead "freedom fighters" and attempting to sneak them back onto base.

In under a minute, six half-ton Wardogs sat in a neat line, amidst a mess of torn up mattresses, pillows, and the odd chewed up chair leg, facing the door.

Tails wagged as the door unlatched with a click, and Mama stepped in. Mama was a woman in her mid-forties, with long brown hair that was starting to grey, thin framed glasses, and a slight build, she seemed more like a vet or a doctor than a Wardog CO. In her left hand, she carried a large, sealed white bucket. Immediately, every muzzle in the room was pointed directly at it.

"Good morning, boys and girl," she said, giving all of her dogs a warm smile. "Before we get started on this," she gestured with the bucket, and watched six pairs of eyes follow it's movement hungrily, "I'd like to introduce a new person to you. You'll all be seeing him around the base and working closely with him for the next few months." 

At this, another human stepped through the door and stood next to Mama. He had brown, crew cut hair, an athletic build, and towered over the Wardog CO at six foot two. In his jeans and t-shirt, however, he looked out of place on a military base. 

Ivan grumbled, letting out a confused, low bark.

Heads tilted and big, wet noses sniffed the air, but none of the dogs left their seated positions. After a moment, Toby stuck out a paw, batting at the air in front of him. The human stood slightly behind Mama, looking jetlagged and nervous about the prospect of approaching the dogs. 

"Hey, c'mon human, there's nothing to be afraid of," Toby said, this time in plain English instead of the barks, growls, and whines the pack used to talk amongst themselves. "Shake?"

-Adrian-

Adrian was taken aback. He had barely stumbled off of the plane before being escorted to meet his new four-legged subjects, and now a giant, camouflaged dalmation was speaking to him and trying to get him to do tricks. Not knowing what else to do and not wanting to miss the opportunity to establish a bond, he stepped tentatively around the woman who had introduced herself as "Mama" and cupped his palm under the bottom of the Wardog's paw. He shook it up and down slowly, not knowing if this was the buildup to some sort of prank, or if he would suddenly have his arm yanked off.

Surprisingly, after a few moments of "shaking," the Wardog gently withdrew his paw, and began to wag his tail. Adrian took the cue and reached slowly up to pat his head. "Nice to meet you, uh..."

"Toby." Came Mama's voice. Adrian could tell she was amused by the awkward introduction playing out in front of her. "From your left, it's Sarge, Toby, Tank, Max, Lady, and Ivan."

Adrian repeated the greeting with each dog, slowly building confidence that he wasn't about to be turned into human kibble by a pack of adorable, four-legged murderbots. 

Paw-shaking and head-patting finished, Adrian stepped back from the line of Wardogs and took a deep breath, noting the heads again tilting inquisitively as he did so. Could they tell he was stressed? 

He worked through his own introduction, explaining that he would be embedded with them for the next few months, trying to give the public a fair and balanced look into the men, women, and dogs of the Wardog program. 

Normally, he would have expected much more wailing and gnashing of teeth at this, especially considering how quickly the decision had been made to ship him out. There were a few grunts and grumbles between Sarge, Tank, and Ivan. It felt like listening to foreigners carry on a conversation in a language he didn't understand. Max, Lady, and Toby never stopped wagging their tails, though it seemed their attention was beginning to shift back onto the white bucket at Mama's foot. 

Finally, Tank and Ivan quieted down, and Sarge spoke to him. "Welcome aboard, humie. You seem alright so far."

Adrian had expected more resistance, but the Wardogs, or most of them, seemed to be quick to trust "humies." Smiling, he patted Sarge on the head once more before excusing himself. He'd hardly slept on the plane in, and even the shredded mattresses in the barracks were starting to look tantalizing.


	2. Chapter 2

-Iran-  
-600-  
-Lady-  
Mama had a strict breakfast routine for her dogs - all six remained sitting at attention until she had portioned out the food into each bowl. The pack had torn into the breakfast bucket of raw meat shortly after the tired looking stranger had left, and Lady was pleasantly surprised to find that this food was indeed of a higher quality than what they had been eating for the past month, though she suspected it was something of a consolation to the pack for having to deal with a reporter. 

After breakfast, the pack was let out for morning exercises, filing out the door of the barracks neatly behind Sarge before splitting off to whatever activities they chose. Lady trotted up next to Max, nuzzling her nose against his cheek and giving it a lick. Max turned to face her, wagging his tail and growling playfully. 

Lady leaned forward, slamming her paws into the ground and kicking up a cloud of sand as she barked back a laugh. The Wardogs locked eyes for a moment before Lady kicked off, launching herself diagonally away from Max, who came barrelling through the cloud of sand a moment later, barking joyfully. Lady gallopped towards a building, slamming on the brakes at the last second to change direction towards a row of parked APCs. She could feel Max running up behind her, hot on her heels. The thrill of the chase sent a spike of adrenaline through her system, and she barked a taunt back at her pursuer. Lady slipped between two APCs and out the other side of the line before she realized she was no longer being chased.

As she peeked back around the line of vehicles, she heard a thud behind her, before the impact of a half-ton machine tackling into her sent her sprawling to the ground. Max barked, leaning over her supine form and licking her face. 

Lady grumbled before returning the licks.

Max whined, clambering off of Lady. he growled, lowering into a play-pounce. 

Lady growled back, hopping up and pouncing back before giving chase to Max as he spun and sprinted away.

-Sarge- 

"MAX! Really..." Mama shook her head as the unmistakable form of a Wardog sailed over a distant line of APCs before landing nimbly behind it's twin. 

"Ruh?" Sarge murmured, trotting casually at her side as she ran on, having never broken stride. Mama had never broken from her morning run, and early on in their working relationship, Sarge had taken it up as well. It was no effort for the massive machine-beast to keep up with the aging, petite woman, but something about the thought of jogging along the base perimeter with his master just felt so... right. He stared up at her face, happy but puzzled. 

"He's jumping around the base," she said, still running. "One day he's going to stick a landing on one of the GIs, and we'll all be in shit." 

Sarge switched over to his human voice and let out a laugh. "I wouldn't worry too much. Those two know to take it easier if there are humies wandering around." He yawned before continuing. "Besides, they all need to blow off as much steam as possible, given the circumstances."

"I didn't mean to spring this on you guys," Mama panted. Sarge could tell that she was starting to tire, but she soldiered on, pushing towards her second wind. "Orders from above that the reporter get a natural reaction."

Sarge whined, licking the side of her face without needing to break stride, or even lean upwards. "Don't worry Mama. None of us are upset at you. Those steaks were a nice touch."

Mama grinned. "Good. Max, Lady, and Toby don't seem to care, but how are you, Tank, and Ivan holding up?"

Sarge thought back to the brief barking match the three had had that morning. Ivan had been the main instigator, really. For a Wardog, he was abnormally interested in irrelevant humie business. The small Soviet gun collection, smuggled piecemeal onto the base over the course of numerous operations, was just the start of his eccentricities. For a Wardog, videos and podcasts were background noise to pass out to, ideally at the feet of a friendly human. Ivan, however, often spent time seeking out news from back home.

"We're not thrilled," Sarge grumbled. "Ivan says there was some sort of anti-Wardog news recently, and this Adrian is coming to capitalize on it. And Tank picked up on it and got even more cranked up than Ivan was." 

As the pack leader, Sarge refrained from whining in front of his subordinates, but he let out a worried whimper and came to a halt, sitting on the hot, sand-swept asphalt. Mama stopped almost immediately, doing her best to hide any sign that she was glad for an excuse to rest and catch her breath. 

"Aww, Sarge, what's wrong?" Mama threw her arms around his thick neck and stroked his head, speaking softly.

"I like being a Wardog, I liked not having to worry about this crap," he whined, taking comfort in the closeness and the petting despite his worries. 

"And you still don't." Mama broke off the hug and gave Sarge a smile. "You just keep the kids in line and keep being the big, tough boy, I know you are, and Mama will handle everything else." She patted him once more on the head before sticking out her upturned hand. "Deal?"

Sarge woofed happily, ears perking up as he placed his paw on the offered hand, and his tail wagged as Mama shook it. 

"Alright you big lug. I think that's a long enough break. Let's go!" The giant dog and his petite master took off again.

-Ivan-

"Okay, uh, boy?" The armorer said, a little unsure of the protocol involving Wardogs. "It's aaaaall done. I have to say," he continued, gingerly picking an ancient, wood and steel bolt-action rifle off of the shelf behind him, "I'm still not entirely sure I should be doing this kinda thing, but I couldn't resist the chance to work with one of these old rifles." With a sense of reverence, he set the rifle down, right in front of the slim-featured Wardog sitting with his paws and muzzle resting on the counter.

Ivan opened his mouth and lolled out his tongue, panting and smiling at the armorer. "Uh, anyway, there wasn't much I could do about the furniture," he looked askance at the beat-up wooden stock, specifically the bite-marks around the middle of the rifle, "but I get the feeling you just want it to work, anyway." Ivan wagged his tail, excitement building. "Just don't tell anyone who helped you out with this, alright?" Ivan woofed a low, excited woof. The armorer gave him a scratch behind the ears and he leaned into it, sighing happily. "Alright go, before we both get in trouble... and go easy on that stock."

Ivan grabbed the rifle in his jaws, tilting his head to walk the long rifle out through the sliding security doors. The armorer chuckled watching the giant dog stalk out through the doors. 

Outside, Ivan made a beeline for the target range. The rifle had been an "acquisition" from the field, and he'd gotten one of the base armorers to give it an inspection and a much-needed fixer-upper. It hadn't taken much convincing, as old Soviet weapons were getting harder and harder to find in working order Stateside, and the soldier had been more than eager to take one apart and play with it. 

Instead of it being a day to relax and grab some rangetime, however, now Ivan had a surplus of steam to blow off. He had always kept an eye on the news, hanging out with some of his two-legged comrades in the breakroom, watching videos and getting pets, so he had caught the Wardog expose and interview, but it hadn't concerned him much. Hardly anybody took that conspiracy theorist hack seriously, anyway. But having a reporter embedded into the pack right afterwards, that took him by surprise. What else could this be, but a hitpiece? Something to capitalize on the sudden interest in the Wardog program, throwing more mud on his comrades to rack up views, hits, clicks, and more cash for the network?   
Would he ask about the dog dicks? Would he ask who fucked whom? 

...Was Tank the bragging type?

It wasn't a sense of shame, per se. Ivan had abandoned that in training, like all the other dogs. But he wasn't oblivious to the effect an outraged public might have on the program's continued existence, and he understood just how bad it would look if that sort of information was presented out of context. The question of what he would do at the end of his service was one that had nagged him during training, and it was now returning with a vengeance. 

But he set it all aside as he trotted into the range, and his tail went from drooping to wagging as he trotted up to a hundred-yard stall, shifting from four-legged to two-legged movement and spitting the refurbished Mosin-Nagant into his hands. He began loading it from a sack of questionably reliable ammo he'd recovered from it's old owner.

Under normal circumstances, with the right hardware and standardized ammunition, Ivan's onboard targeting systems could tell him exactly where he was aiming, predict the point of impact with a startling degree of accuracy, and let him know just how long he had to go before changing out magazines. 

But no helpful reticle appeared in his vision as he shouldered the ancient rifle. The only thing guiding his shot were a set of battered irons. He adjusted the back leaf with brutal claws capable of far more gentle manipulation than they had any right to be. He visualized the reporter's handsome, chiseled face on the steel target. 

He stroked the trigger, and reveled in the roar and kick of the old machine against his shoulder, the loud ping of a bullet impacting steel.

He growled.

 

-Tank- 

In spite of his size, in spite of his typical role in the pack, Tank had always relished stalking prey, sneaking up on other dogs in training, and popping up from cover to flank the enemy. Something about hunting and tracking just appealed to him. Whatever it was, he'd gone off like a shot as soon as Mama let the Wardogs free for morning recreation, following the scent of stale sweat, airplane peanuts, and fair-trade laundry detergent through the base. 

He was conflicted about the new humie. The guy didn't seem bad, not by any means. He smelled alright, acted friendly, if a little nervous, and normally, if Mama trusted someone, that was enough.

It all came down to Ivan. The Borzoi worried far more than any other Wardog Tank had met about humie affairs. Ivan probably had a valid point - the whole thing could well be another cheap shot at the Wardog program, drumming up more controversy for a quick buck. If that was the case, the reporter was an enemy, in a way... and their first step towards protecting the pack was to gather intel. 

It was surprising just how quiet a thousand-odd pound mecha-dog could be. He kept low, not quite sneaking around vehicles and buildings as he followed the scent. It wasn't like he'd get into trouble for wandering around the base, everyone knew Wardogs operated on a weird set of rules and regulations. Even getting spotted by Mama or the reporter wouldn't land him in any hot water. Of course, it probably wouldn't benefit anyone if the reporter felt like he was being stalked through the base by a pack of four-legged killing machines, either. 

Really, what kept him poking his head around corners and listening for approaching footsteps all came down to the sheer challenge and thrill of the hunt. Sure, he was probably showing up on a dozen cameras on base, but all they saw was a curious dog following a scent.

Tank found himself following the same path, albeit in a circuitous way, as Mama took when heading back to her quarters. It made sense to put him there - it wasn't like he could really sleep with the pack, and quartering him in someone else's barracks would probably just result in confusion for everyone. 

And there it was. The two-story building seemed more like a civilian dorm than anything that belonged on an army base, and housed the Wardog staff, various civilian contractors, and if the scent trail was anything to go by, a certain intrepid reporter. 

Tank didn't even try to enter, he'd seen enough to satisfy his curiosity for now. 

Before he could trot off and find Ivan, his eyes were drawn to a flicker of motion at an upper window. There was the reporter, grinning a loopy, tired grin and waving out of a window. "Hey!" he shouted, "Just stay there one minute, okay?" He bent over for a second, head bobbing out of view before popping back up. "I'll be right down!"

Tank barked halfheartedly. So much for a sneaking mission. 

-Toby-

"Hey, boy! Glad you managed to make it!"

Toby barked happily at the two soldiers, wagging his tail excitedly.

"I wasn't sure if you were seriously going to help me out with this, but I guess it's true what they say about you around the base."

The speaker approached, and Toby rolled onto the ground, panting and exposing his belly. 

"I got Joe here to videotape everything, so let's get down to it!" The soldier gave Toby a tummy rub, scratching his chin as he tilted his head back. 

"And seriously, thank you. My daughter loves Wardog stuff, she'll really get a kick out of a video of her ol' dad playing fetch with you." 

Toby leaned up and licked the soldier square on the face. Behind the camera, Joe laughed, giving the pair a thumbs up. "I got that on video, 'dad'!"

The soldier made a face at the camera, before standing and taking a few steps back from the Wardog. He picked up a dusty, battered football from the ground.

"Alright, boy... GO LONG!"


	3. Chapter 3

-Adrian-

This wasn't bad, he thought as he kicked off his shoes. It was a hell of a lot better than what he had been expecting - just another bunk with the grunts, no privacy and little in the way of comfort, but it looked like he was in for a pleasant stay. 

What came to mind as Adrian surveyed his new home for the next few months was a college dorm, or perhaps the kind of higher than average-end motel that he sometimes had to hole up in on long roadtrips or during flight delays. 

His luggage - a rolling case of clothes, a duffel back with a large camera and tri-pod, and his backpack had all been set at the foot of a twin bed with white, wrinkle-free sheets. Up against the window stood a white folding table and a steel chair. All of it was serviceable, if not luxurious. His suite had even come equipped with a small bathroom, complete with a shower. 

But most importantly, he noted, was that it was air-conditioned. 

The soft, fresh bedsheets were calling out to him, and he wanted nothing more than to throw himself onto the bed and pass out, clothes and all, but he resisted the temptation. It wouldn't do to mess up his sleep schedule. If the soldiers, the dogs, whatever, were awake, he had to be as well. 

At least he'd gotten some interesting footage, he thought, shuffling past the bed and slumping onto the chair. The sunglasses he was still wearing were standard tools of his trade - a small, inbuilt camera and microphone combination on the bridge of the frame picked up whatever he was looking at, storing it on a drive looped behind one ear.

Of course, he'd gotten prior permission from the woman who referred to herself as "Mama." Mama, or Dr. Mary Lucyznski, as she'd reintroduced herself when he'd balked at calling her "Mama" away from the pack, seemed to have no problem with him filming whatever, wherever, though he was left with the impression that what made it onto television and computer screens would be left to the discretion of DARPA and Army censors. 

The dogs, in the end, wouldn't need to care, she'd told him. Their identities were completely a blank as far as he was concerned, and they were free to interact with him as much or as little as they wished.

And therein would lie the problem. Half of the pack seemed to trust him already - for them, it had only taken being introduced by their boss, or master, or owner... in fact, Adrian wasn't sure what Mama's actual role or rank on base, or in the Wardog program, really was.

But he suspected she'd be more forthcoming than the other half of the pack. The two bigger dogs, Sarge and Tank, seemed displeased by his presence, to say the least, but the relatively lithe one called Ivan had looked almost hostile. 

Movement out the window caught Adrian's eye, taking him out of his reverie. In the distance, the unmistakable figure of a Wardog galloped across a dusty field, launching itself into the air to intercept a football. Standing to get a better view of the action, Adrian could make out a pair of two-legged soldiers in the field with it, one standing further back from the dog with what looked like a small camera on a tripod, the other waving the dog over to him. 

Checking his glasses to make sure he was, indeed, getting all this, he smiled. The dog, probably Toby by the size and coloration, trotted back before gently dropping a ball into the outstretched arms of the soldier, receiving a scratch on the head for his catch. The scene repeated itself a few more times - throw, catch, return, pet - before the soldier changed tactics. Winding up for a dramatic throw, he lunged forward, throwing absolutely nothing and tucking the ball behind the small of his back. Toby launched himself forwards, galloping a dozen meters before slamming the brakes and kicking up a cloud of sand. He stood, tail wagging, panting, and staring at the soldier, who finally relented and tossed him the ball. The cameraman looked to be having either a fit of uproarious laughter or a grand mal seizure, Adrian couldn't tell from the distance. 

He stepped away from the window, grabbing his backpack and pulling out a mess of cables, a laptop, and a large, steel encased hard drive. It couldn't hurt to back things up, what with all the footage he'd already gotten. He plugged the cables into the outlets, pulling the desk out an inch to snake the cables up and over, when he noticed something standing right under his window. 

It was one of the bigger dogs, though not one of the ones that had seemed happy to see him. But here it was, and Adrian wasn't going to miss an opportunity to talk with a Wardog one on one. "Hey!" he shouted, "Just stay there one minute, okay?" He bent over for a second, plugging in the power supply to his laptop. "I'll be right down!" Backups would have to wait. 

\---

A few minutes later, Adrian stumbled through the double doors of his air-conditioned home away from home and out into the hot Iranian air. His visitor was still waiting for him, sitting stiffly in the dirt, looking intently at a spot a little to his right. "Hey there, big guy! It's Tank, right?" 

The dog looked further away, grumbling a low woof as he tried to approach. He was almost acting a little guilty. "I have no idea what you're trying to tell me." Still nothing. He was afraid to approach too close without some sort of permission. Yeah, he should be safe, but he wasn't going to gamble a hand on that assumption. "Look, I don't speak 'woof,' okay? Did Mama send you out to get me?" This guy... dog... obviously wasn't thrilled about being here. 

But the word "Mama" flipped a switch in the dog. It was like dealing with his own childhood dog - no matter what the situation, there were always a few words guaranteed to get a positive reaction. Tank glanced towards him, yawning. "That's right, I'm not a..." he paused, yawning back, "a bad guy. And Mama," heavy emphasis on the word, "Mama says you guys like getting pet. Is that right, boy?"

A little tail wag told him he was on the right track.

"There, that's right." He gave the giant dog the first tentative pats on his head. Tough, furless synthetic flesh was different from what he was used to, but it certainly didn't feel bad. Tank looked at him expectantly with mechanical eyes, as if hoping for a higher standard of petting. 

Adrian went in for the ear rub. Hooking his hand behind Tank's ear, he started giving it a slow, gentle massage. After a few seconds, Tank began to lean into the rub. A few more, and he closed his eyes, snorting out a contented sigh. 

"Now, can we be friends?" He didn't let up on the ear massage, but he did switch ears. "Or at least, will you speak for me, boy?"

"Yeah, but yourrrrrf... ooh, you're going to have to stop that." Tank's paws had slid apart, and he looked dangerously close to flopping onto the ground. 

Adrian chuckled, letting his hand drop to his side. It was almost insane to think about, but he had effectively disabled one of the most expensive, technologically advanced pieces of equipment the military had ever deployed, with nothing more than a simple ear rub. "So then, it is Tank, right?" The dog nodded, still pulling himself back into a proper sit. "So what are you here for? I can't imagine Mama sent you just to guard my door." 

"Just kinda curious, I guess. Ivan thinks you'll try to get us in trouble." Tank shifted uncomfortably. A part of him knew he shouldn't be so forthcoming, but he couldn't help himself.

Adrian felt a little twinge of guilt. That wasn't what he was doing, right? "Hey now," he started, placing a hand on Tank's head and ruffling his nonexistent fur, "I'm just here to show everyone what Wardogs are really like." And if there was something shady going on, he'd get to the bottom of it. "So, why not tell me a little about yourself?"

Tank hesitated, not really sure what to say.

"C'mon, anything? Like, what do you do for fun, or why did you join up, or even what you want to do when you get out?" Lots of people needed that kind of specific prompting to open up - ask someone to talk about themselves, half of the time they'd draw a blank. 

"Fun?" Tank's posture relaxed significantly. "Well, I LOVE to wrestle, especially with Sarge. And then there's the evening runs around the base where Mama takes the whole pack out, and sometimes Ivan and I will hit the range early, or I'll play with the soldiers, and I get to practice chasing other dogs sometimes during morning PT..." Adrian gawked, trying to keep a reassuring smile on his face as Tank gushed, his tail slapping against the ground. "OH! And I love going out on missions, it feels so good being helpful, and then when I come back I get treats and love and praise an-"

Adrian held up a hand. "Whoah, boy. That's all your job, right? I mean, what do you do for fun?" Tank tilted his head. "You know, like when you're not in the suit. Video games, books, sports, that sort of thing?" 

Tank paused mid tail-wag, switching tracks. "You mean like humie stuff?"

There was that word again. "Humie? Sarge said that too, what's that about?"

"Humie? It's what you are," Tank said, like it was obvious. "And humie stuff, well, it's just not all that interesting." 

Adrian still wasn't satisfied. It wasn't like calling someone a civilian, there was some meaning behind that word. He made a mental note to ask Mama when he had a chance. "Okay, so no humie stuff, but surely at some point in your life, you enjoyed it, right?"

Before Tank could respond, a howl split the air, grabbing the attention of both the reporter and the Wardog. The howl was answered by others across the base, and Tank answered it as well, leaning his head back and pointing his muzzle to the sky. 

"Okay, what was that about?" Adrian asked as Tank's howl tapered off. 

"Playtime! C'mon humie, you probably wanna watch, right? I'll show you the way!" Tank had jumped up, his tail wagging furiously. 

\---

Tank stayed true to his word, guiding Adrian to the pack's practice ground. He was thankful that he'd always made it a point to stay in shape, as even at a steady, restrained trot, Tank was making him run to keep up. At least he wasn't feeling like crawling into bed anymore. 

Five of the dogs were already engaged in some kind of mix between football and demolition derby. Two of the dogs - the two twins, Lady and Max, were advancing down the field, with Ivan and Toby giving chase. Sarge waited off on the sidelines, and exchanged a few excited barks with Tank as he arrived, before both dogs picked a side and joined the fray. 

Mama was presiding over the whole thing, sitting at a folding table safely off to the side and sheltered from the beating sun by a portable canopy. She waved him over, offering a water bottle from a cooler at her feet. "I see you've brought back my last lost doggie. I hope the two of you had a good chat." The dogs were lined up, two teams of three facing off against each other. 

Adrian slumped into a chair and drained the water bottle. Goddamn, that cold water tasted good after running around in the heat. "He took a little coaxing, but yes. Though, I wasn't expecting him to be the one to follow me home." Tank passed the ball to Max, who took off running in an arc around Sarge's team's line of defense. 

"Yeah, I think he had some help making that decision." She laughed. Toby was closing in on the Max. 

"I guess a couple of these guys are worried I might draw the wrong conclusions about the program." He reached down into the cooler, grabbing another water before continuing. "So I was hoping maybe you could explain some of this to me?" Adrian winced as he saw, and almost felt the crash of impact as Toby tackled Max, but the ball was already in the air. 

"Is this an official interview, then?" Every dog still standing was running to intercept the thrown ball. 

"Are they alright? It looks like they're going to break something." Lady leapt, her jaws snatching the ball out of the air. Adrian wished he had a spare camera to capture both the action in front of him and the interview. 

"They're fine. They like to play rough, and those chassis can take way more of a beating than that." Mama smiled as Lady crossed some goal that Adrian couldn't see, jerking her head to toss the ball into the ground before howling triumphantly. "Trust me, they're holding back."

"If you say so." That was enough Wardog-derby. Adrian focused his full attention on his current subject. "So, yes, just think of this as a 'getting to know you' interview." To free up his head and neck, he removed his sunglasses and placed them on the table, facing her. 

Over the next ten minutes, Mama gave Adrian and his camera a brief overview of her life up to her inclusion in the Wardog commander program. She'd grown up in rural Wisconsin, joining the Army out of high school so she could access GI Bill benefits and pursue higher education. Eventually graduating from Wisconsin-Madison with a PhD in computer science, she'd made a name for herself in the private sector working in neural interface technology before going back to the public sector at DARPA. 

"So you're partly responsible for the technology that keeps these guys up and running?" Adrian was equally impressed and perplexed. "Why would critical development personnel be out leading Wardog units in the field? Frankly, Dr. Lucyznski, that seems a little risky for the Wardog program."

"Of course it's dangerous." She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back in her chair. "But this is still new technology. Not just the dogs-" she paused as another triumphant howl from the field drowned her out, "but neural interfacing itself. There are so many factors to consider, from the complexity of the software to the neurology of each individual pilot. If something goes wrong, it might not be enough to have a few certified technicians on hand. We don't know enough about everything that CAN go wrong to have a thorough technical manual." 

"So send out the closest thing you have to experts and hope they can handle new issues as they arise?" 

"Not every pack commander is part of the original team, and not everyone on the team got to go out. My military history helped in that regard. We have commanders from every discipline out here - biology, medicine, software, mechanical engineering, even psychology, but the team staying Stateside is perfectly qualified to continue the program. Even if, say, Iran went totally nuts and started nuking our bases in its own territory, the program would lick its wounds and go on." 

Smiling, she added, "We care about these Wardogs. They put their lives on the line for their country in more ways than one out here. What kind of person would I be if I wasn't willing to do the same for them?"

Adrian let her last comment hang for a moment. It was well delivered, almost practiced, but she seemed genuine. The conviction in her voice was almost chilling, and he didn't doubt she'd be willing to back it up with action. 

"Well... Okay, one more and you're off the hook." And like that, she went from scary to friendly. 

"You've no doubt heard some of the accusations recently made by a former Wardog recruit. What do you want to say regarding claims made that your training program, and I guess specifically the interface you've designed, is brainwashing young soldiers?"

If she had been scary before, now she seemed almost saddened. "I have, and I think it's a shame the young man making those claims chose not to talk to any of the counseling staff we have at the facility. Even a simple neural interface can be jarring to first time users, but with a Wardog, a pilot is controlling an entire body that isn't their own."

Mama sighed, continuing. "How that body perceives the world around it is altered necessarily from how our own bodies do - a Wardog has sharper senses, plus a wealth of sensors feeding a mass of data through the jack to the pilot. All of this has to be recontextualized, quickly, into something the operator can understand and act upon as naturally and rapidly as he or she would in his own body. That's been my life's work for years."

"So if you're asking me if it alters the mindset of the pilot? I'd have to say that it absolutely does. But it's not taking away their free will, or their individuality. You saw how some of them reacted to having a reporter on base, for example." 

"And as for the training, well, I've been through boot camp. It's always been about breaking down trained behaviors and putting new ones in place. Thou shalt not kill becomes killing the enemy without hesitation. Stigma against nudity is washed away in public showers and public barracks. And yes, questioning orders becomes an enthusiastic 'Sir yes sir!'" She gave a mock salute to the camera. "At least until the CO is out of earshot and the grunts are free to bitch amongst themselves."

Mama was coming back around to her normal, perky smile. "Some of those barriers are different with Wardogs, but nothing we do is any different in substance from what militaries have been doing since the dawn of the first professional armies. Anything else?" 

"Well, I'd say that's a wrap." Adrian picked up his glasses, finally ending their recording function. Those batteries were dangerously low. 

Mama stood, offering her hand. Adrian shook it, grabbing one last water for the walk back before standing as well. "Good! We'll have to do this again, I'm sure, but for now..." She looked over to the field. The dogs were still playing, though they'd slowed down considerably. "WHO'S HUNGRY?" She shouted. Six dogs paused mid-game, six sets of ears perking up as six muzzles pointed directly at her. "I've got some dogs to feed." 

Adrian couldn't help but laugh at the absurd display as he uncapped his water and started walking back to his room.


End file.
